


move your dancing feet

by larkscape



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dancing, F/F, Hippies, Romance, music festivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 21:17:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16048736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: Parker scuffs her bare toe in the dirt, edging closer, not sure of her welcome. Within the camp, a man pounds out a hypnotic rhythm on some type of drum half as tall as he is and everyone not playing an instrument is dancing, slamming their feet in the dust and twirling like mad tops. There’s something otherworldly about their intensity; it’s riveting, a little frightening, a lot tempting. Parker's never seen anything like it.Parker is trying new things, trying to find a way back to herself. Millie knows what that's like.





	move your dancing feet

 

It's still damned hot out, even though the sun's been down for hours. Parker isn't used to it, isn't used to any of this, but thinks  _ what the hell _ and tries to ignore the sweat slipping down her back.

She's trying to work up the nerve to join the bus party.

There are three full-size school buses, each painted in tie-dye patterns and covered in wild abstract neon, parked in a loose triangle at the back of the campground and sheltering the source of the heavy drumbeat throbbing up her shins. The luminescent paint shouts into the night; just because the festival grounds are closed for the day, it proclaims in pinks and yellows, doesn't mean it's time to stop having fun. The blues and greens hum that the music is just getting started — didn't you know that this one belongs to that crazy fiddler from this afternoon? And his drummer buddy, too. Red and purple and electric white: Look, that woman hawking glassware sleeps right over here, that's her bunk, she'll sell you every kind of pipe or pendant you ever dreamed of.

Parker scuffs her bare toe in the dirt, edging closer, not sure of her welcome. Within the camp, a man pounds out a hypnotic rhythm on some type of drum half as tall as he is and everyone not playing an instrument is dancing, slamming their feet in the dust and twirling like mad tops. There’s something otherworldly about their intensity; it’s riveting, a little frightening, a lot tempting. Parker's never seen anything like it.

She stands just outside the illumination of the rice lights strung between the trees and the buses, feeling like a voyeur.

There's a girl Parker does not see. The girl doesn't expect to be seen; she's sitting far above eye level, above the roofs of the buses on a hammock-net suspended between trees. But she, too, was once an outsider at the edge of the circle, looking for a way in.

When she vaults to the roof of the nearest bus and effortlessly slides down the side to land in the dirt, Parker does see her. The girl stands up, a tiny dust cloud hovering by her feet in the still summer air, and extends a hand.

"Hey, what's your name? I’m Millie."

 

Parker feels like the world is going by too fast and all she can do is hold on and watch.

Millie's hand anchors her until she starts to feel the ground beneath her feet ( _ really _ feel it, Millie insists, all the way into your  _ bones _ ), and then Millie whirls away from her, all laughter and streaming hair. Parker thinks Millie sounds like bells and then realizes that she's wearing them; Millie's got bells around her ankles, her wrists, tied in her hair. Every step she takes, every leap and stomp and shake jingles.

The sounds blend into each other, and it doesn't matter that the world is streaking by because all Parker can feel is the throbbing of the drum, the driving bass rhythm of countless feet meeting flat earth, and she is swept into the flow.

When Millie smiles at her again, eyes sparkling, Parker laughs along and lets Millie spin her around the guitarist.

 

They're sitting in Millie’s hammock above the impromptu dance floor when Millie kisses her. It's not coercive, or calculated, or hurtful, or any of the other things Parker has come to expect from a kiss — just lush and sweet and completely in the moment.

"Why?" she asks when they break apart, a little breathless, and then feels foolish.

"Because you looked like you needed it," Millie replies with a half-smile. “Because I wanted to. Because you’ve got a cute little smear of dirt right here.” She rubs her thumb along the edge of Parker’s jaw. Parker flushes.

“I like the way you dance,” Millie says. She takes a bell from her hair to tie on Parker’s belt loop.

Parker doesn't really understand, but she's not sure that she needs to. She thinks  _ this girl is a marvel, _ and  _ why not, _ and  _ I want to do things for  _ me _ again; that’s the whole point of this trip. I want this. _ Her new bell makes a delicate tinkling sound when she shifts closer.

“I like the way you dance, too,” she says. “Teach me?”

 

The smoke is making Parker dizzy in the nicest way. Beautiful Millie is holding her hand again and the drummers have switched but that's alright because the rhythm never faltered and everyone is still dancing.

Someone has opened one of the windows in the westernmost bus and is passing drinks in worn ceramic cups through it. Millie grabs one, takes a long swallow, and hands it to Parker.

“What is it?” Parker asks.

Millie shrugs. “Something tasty. I don’t know, Galen is magic with the drinks and he hasn’t led me wrong yet.”

Parker holds her gaze and drains the cup. She's pretty sure it's got cranberry juice in it, though if so, it’s the best cranberry juice she’s ever tasted. Magic, indeed. Millie’s lips are very red.

"Hey Sonia!" Millie cries suddenly, turning, dragging Parker's wrist behind her and Parker along with it. "Hey, meet Parker!"

 

Parker doesn't know what time it is, but almost everyone has turned in for the night. There's one woman left playing guitar for an audience of three, strumming old bluegrass ballads that Parker thinks she ought to know but doesn't. Sonia sings along in a quiet, throaty alto. The rice lights are still on but they look feeble and the neon has stuttered out, leaving the clearing around them illuminated only by the thin light of a waxing moon.

Millie's got her hands woven into the hammock above her head, stretching up on tiptoe to wrestle her fingertips between the cords. "Do you like it here?" she asks as she adjusts her grip.

Parker just watches for a moment. Millie’s arms are taut as she lifts her feet from the ground. Every move she makes is easy, joyous.

"Yeah, I do,” Parker says eventually. “Is it always like this?"

She hopes so. Somewhere in the world should always be like this, she thinks.

Millie's picking herself up now, folding in half to stick her feet through the weave of the net, and then her fingers release to leave her hanging by her ankles, swaying above the ground. The frayed cuffs of her too-large pants bunch around her knees. Her calves are dust-stained and deeply tanned; Parker gives into the urge to run her hand over them.

"You could come with us to the next one," Millie says, mouth obscured by the flopping hem of her crocheted top. "We've got a free bunk now that Jamie's decided to take off with that guy in the Volvo.” Her fingers curl around Parker’s ankle. “I’d like it if you stuck around."

Parker thinks that might not be so bad.

 

When Parker wakes up on someone else’s camping mattress the next morning, Millie's curled up beside her like a cat, feet tucked under and hands cushioning her sharp-boned face. The bells in her hair are spread out over the single pillow and Parker realizes that one has left an impression in her own cheek. She doesn't mind. The warm place at the base of Millie’s throat is crying out to be kissed and that’s a far more pressing concern.

When the bus heads out for TriFest two days later, Parker hitches a ride.

 


End file.
